


Mind Over Madness

by Alexdoesthings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feral Behavior, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Mates, Pack Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexdoesthings/pseuds/Alexdoesthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if no one else believed it could be done, there was still one person who cared about Derek enough not to let him die without trying to save him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing Red

**Author's Note:**

> And so a whole fanfiction was written for one scene!
> 
> This was inspired by "[Anchors](http://fourdirtypaws.deviantart.com/art/Anchors-324702353)" by [FourDirtyPaws](http://fourdirtypaws.deviantart.com/) on deviantART

The forest was painted ominously in bloody red as the sun set. The trees flashed past them as they fled, shadows long and menacing. Stiles stumbled over a hidden root and would have fallen if not for Scott catching his shoulder with the hand not clutching his bloody side, and shoving him on desperately. Peter glanced back as he took the lead to make sure Stiles was still moving, favoring his right leg. Their labored breathing and frantic footsteps crunching on leaves were loud in their ears as the three strained to catch the sounds of their pursuant.

The Hale house came into view through the trees at last and Stiles could have cried with relief. They were, by no means, out of the woods yet though. A broken, bloodthirsty howl echoed through the woods behind the three as they ran pell-mell toward the ruin and away from the dark, menacing creature chasing them.

Stiles grabbed the bottle of mountain ash Deaton had given him for just such an emergency and pulled the top off roughly, working hard not to spill their only hope before they reached the sanctuary of the house. Like bats out of hell, they hit the clearing where the house stood, blackened broken. The hulking, black creature was behind them, only a few yards back and closing the distance with fast, angry leaps. Peter jumped onto the porch and cried out in pain as his left leg nearly crumpled underneath him. Scott rushed up and steadied Peter, dragging him through the door and turning back to see Stiles with his eyes closed clutching a handful of ash and breathing a small plea for this to work.

Stiles was concentrating too hard to notice the beast nearly upon him, but Scott did and just barely held himself back from grabbing Stiles’ arm and pulling him in the house. He moved into a crouch ready to throw himself between the two to save his friend if Stiles’ plan failed. The thing was only a single leap away from him as Stiles threw the ash. He could heard the heavy breathing of the creature that had attacked them, loud as it closed in, and he didn’t bother to check if the ash line had worked, willing with all his might that it had, as he raced into the house on Scott’s shoulder.

As soon as he was over the threshold, Stiles slammed the door behind him and plastered himself against it as though his frail human body would do any good at keeping it shut if that mass of muscle and rage tried to break it down. Peter was leaning his weight against the frame of one of the adjoining rooms and Scott was in front of the stairs, facing the door, fully wolfed out and crouched forward, ready. They all held their breath for a tense moment and listened. Stiles could hear nothing but he knew the other two could by the tense looks on their faces.

Then he heard the loud snapping of jaws and an angry growl that worked into another blood curdling howl straight from a nightmare. It was an angry hunting cry that chilled the blood but as it drew out it changed into a different noise altogether. It was not a sound Stiles expected to hear from the beast, it was a miserable and angry moan that lashed out and worked its way into the heart, ripping aggressively at the deepest depths of fear and loneliness in his soul, begging to be saved. The howl died away among the burned remains of the house, becoming nothing more than another impression in the wood that had absorbed so many screams. But that sound lingered in Stiles mind for a long moment afterward so he barely registered that the werewolves relaxed as the creature retreated back into the surrounding woods.

Scott plopped himself down on the second step of the staircase and pealed back his torn shirt carefully to reveal a slow healing claw mark that had been raked across it, still oozing blood but nothing life threatening. Peter glared at his leg like he could command it to heal or perhaps he was angry, less about having a chunk of leg ripped out by the creature’s teeth and more about the fact it had ripped a good deal of nice pant leg off along with the muscle and sinew. Stiles tugged out his cell phone to find that it had been smashed at some point; between being attacked and crashing through the woods, it wasn’t a surprise. He threw the mutilated bit of useless plastic aside angrily and blew out a frustrated breath before rounding on the other two.

“Someone should call Derek,” he said, throwing the task to them as he started pacing around in a small circle, full of energy from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, “He needs to get here and help us figure this out.”

He rubbed a hand over his head and swallowed, trying to fight down the panic at the idea that he had almost died; if Peter hadn’t come along when he did, Stiles would probably be a mangled corpse. That didn’t make him feel better; he didn’t trust Peter and now he owed him his life. He had other things to think about though, like what the hell was that? He hadn’t gotten a good look at it when it came at them because the sun had been behind it and Peter had knocked it aside a second later. They had been running for their lives after that and there wasn’t a lot of time for looking around with death literally on their heels.

The needed to do something before whatever it was hurt someone, and/or his Dad and the other officers got involved, gnawed at his stomach. He stopped his pacing when he realized that Scott and Peter hadn’t moved. He glanced back at them just in time to catch them at the tail end of a significant look. He narrowed his eyes at them; they knew something he didn’t. Peter’s look was unreadable as he watched Stiles and Scott’s expression was dark and hard to decipher as well.

“Something you want to share with the class,” Stiles asked warily, looking between them accusingly.

Scott’s eyes dropped from Stiles as he said, “We can’t call Derek.”

There was something about the way that Scott said his name that brushed some recent memory in the back of Stiles mind but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. He knew it was something about the color red. There had been a lot of red tonight though, the sunset, blood, even his sweatshirt was red. Whatever it meant, he knew it was not good news. He waited a few seconds longer but Scott didn’t elaborate and Peter just looked back at him with some impatience as though Peter was waiting for him to stop denying the evidence and piece it together.

He swallowed, refusing to allow even the idea to form in his head, but it already had. The memory hit him full force like a punch to the head, the red he remembered, the red eyes that had come at him from seemingly nowhere, more wild and inhuman than he had ever seen a werewolf’s eyes, possessed with the need to hunt, the want to kill.

“Where’s Derek,” Stiles demanded, his voice low with apprehension; he knew already, of course he did, but he had to hear the words come out of Scott’s mouth before he would trust his hunch. Stiles had never wanted so intensely to be wrong in his life.

Scott shifted uncomfortable and his gaze fell on part of the wooden banister that had splintered as though it held all the answers in the world. “Stiles, that,” Scott paused like it was hard for him to say, “That was Derek.”


	2. Desolation

Stiles felt rocked, like the ground was shifting under his feet. A fierce denial was coursing through him and he was suddenly angry with Scott for even suggesting such a thing, yeah Derek was a lot of things but he was not that twisted beast. He shook his head, like that would dispel the idea, growing like a cancer at the edge of his consciousness.

“How could that have been Derek,” Stiles burst out, “That doesn’t make any-”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Scott shouted over him as Stiles opened his mouth to say more, “But he’s…” Scott glanced around in some frustration like he was trying to figure out what word it was that would describe what had happened to Derek.

“Gone feral,” Peter finished Scott’s sentence grimly. Stiles head whipped in his direction just as a grimace settled over Peter’s face as he shifted his weight to lean better against the frame.

“Alright,” Stiles said, throwing up his arms and using the tone of voice that suggested he was talking to a room of total morons, “let’s say you’re right and we've got a feral alpha on our hands, when the hell did this happen? We saw him a couple of days ago.”

Scott’s eyes flickered away from Stiles as he admitted, quietly, “I think that's when it started, but I wasn’t sure what was happening.”

Stiles denial drained out of him as he remembered the odd way Scott had been eyeing Derek and how the other werewolf had seemed off. With the denial he'd been clinging to now eradicated, Stiles just stared at Scott, feeling betrayed. This was not new information and, by Peter’s lack of surprise, Stiles had been the only one caught unawares by this development.

“And at what point, exactly, were you going to mention this to me,” Stiles asked furiously, “Before or after he used my entrails as earrings?”

Scott flinched at his tone like Stiles had taken a swing at him. Stiles knew Scott could sense the mix of emotions coming off of him, anger, betrayal, blame, and didn't bother to try and dull them. Scott hung his head ashamedly, like being sorry would make any difference, but Stiles was unsympathetic. Derek becoming feral was not something to be kept quiet, but Stiles had the feeling Scott had been keeping a lot of things from him recently.

Scott’s voice was wounded as he looked back up at Stiles and said, “I was going to-” Stiles waved a hand angrily at him to shut him up though, not wanting to hear it.

Scott went quiet guiltily and returned his head to its apologetic downward position. Stiles crossed one arm over his chest and rubbed the other in agitation across his face before dropping it back down to cross over the other. He could practically feel the window of time they had to deal with this draining away, fast.

“It doesn’t matter. We have to do something. We need a plan,” he said decisively, looking between the two in equal parts determination and accusation.

“I have an idea,” Peter ventured as he finally managed to maneuver his leg so he could slide down onto the dusty floor boards, he let out a puff of air as he settled back before continuing, “We sit here, safe, and we wait.”

There was a shocked, strained silence at this pronouncement. Stiles glared at Peter, but he looked completely unfazed by the burning stare, propping his uninjured leg up to rest one arm on. Scott glanced between them, feeling the tension mounting, unsure what to do.

Peter knew he was right; his plan was the only one that would allow them to keep their lives and all their limbs. He also knew that Stiles knew that was the safest bet, the smartest option. But Stiles also knew that if that thing wasn’t trying to kill them, there were plenty of people in Beacon Hills to hunt instead, some of them wearing sheriff’s uniforms.

“We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” Stiles said stubbornly, “We have to help him before he gets someone killed.”

Peter shot him a petulant look at him and asked, annoyed, “Were you even there for the last half hour when he tried to kill us?”

“Isn’t he your alpha, your family,” Stiles challenged, “Aren’t you supposed to want to help him?”

Stiles knew it in his gut that this was Peter’s fault somehow. He could feel his distrust of Peter growing every second he was in the same room with him. Peter’s look became closed and he was quiet a long few seconds, watching Stiles stare him down accusingly, before he said, coldly, “I was part of his pack but Derek doesn’t have a pack anymore; he doesn’t know even know what it means, how to lead.”

Stiles hands had formed into tight fists at some point and he had the very desperate wish to punch Peter; he still owed him that for biting Lydia anyway. The rush of adrenaline still flowing through his veins, the left over fear, and the sense of helplessness trying to claw at him, was leaving him feeling irrationally violent.

“Is that why he’s like this,” Stiles asked, voice holding a hostile chill, “because you abandoned him?” Peter did not look away from Stiles furious, accusing glare, meeting it in that unnerving, almost lifeless way of his.

“Stiles,” Scott said tentatively from the stairs, voice gentle, “he’s right. Derek almost killed us and nothing’s changed now; we don’t have a plan or weapons; there’s nothing we can do.”

Stiles rounded on Scott now; the fact that Scott was taking Peter’s side in this fueled his rage. “We can make a plan and weapons,” Stiles yelled at him, frustrated, “There’ got to be something.”

“There’s not,” Scott said, both gentle and completely, painfully honest.

He was looking up at Stiles from his perch on the stairs with his earnest brown eyes, trying to get him to calm down and listen to reason. Stiles though, refused to be calmed, refused to believe, despite his friend’s words, that there was nothing to be done. Derek and he had saved each other’s lives a couple of times now and, even though Derek went about everything the wrong way, he still tried to do the right thing. Stiles felt he owed it to the guy not to just give up. Besides, they had practically become experts at saving people and now was not the time to go back on that policy when Derek was out there looking for someone to rip into.

“Isn’t there a way to-,” he started saying but Peter interrupted him sharply.

“He’s already too far gone. We need a more... permanent solution,” Peter's stress on the last two words, and especially the dark, haunting conviction with which he said them, sent another shiver down Stiles spine. His fists were tight and he realized that all his muscles were tensed as though he were getting ready to enter battle.

At that moment, a long, desolate note emanated from somewhere not too far into the preserve, piercing the night with the sheer crushing misery of it. All three of their heads whipped around to stare in the direction it came from. As the sound drew out it seemed to steal the air and Stiles felt it tingling deep inside his bones. It was a painful sound to have to bear witness to and it made Stiles’ heart clench. When the sound had died away, absorbed into the charred wood of the house that knew too many screams, Stiles found his heart rate and breathing were erratic and his hands were trembling at his sides.

After a long, silent moment, everyone lost in their own thoughts, Stiles asked, quiet and bitter, “So we just let him be killed?”

“You’re the smart one, Stiles, think for a minute,” Peter said, exasperated, obviously getting fed up with Stiles’s stubbornness, “What can you do? He’s out of his mind and out for blood. It’s only a matter of time before he kills someone and draws attention to himself, and then the Argents will step in.”

It was unnerving, the flippant way he was willing to casually offer his nephew up for slaughter without batting an eye. Stiles shivered involuntarily. He knew that somewhere under Peter's utilitarian front, he ached at the thought of the loss of his nephew, but Peter had a lot of ash to bury that under.

The idea of Derek punched full of wolf’s bane and dying in this demented state filled Stiles blood with ice; Derek didn’t deserve that. Stiles didn’t realize he was shaking until Scott asked tentatively, leaning forward like he was going to stand up and go to his best friend, “Stiles?”

“NO,” Stiles yelled suddenly, furious. Scott recoiled as though burned. Stiles didn’t know why this whole thing was making so mad suddenly, maybe because he had some inkling of how Derek felt, but suddenly Stiles was furious. “Didn’t you hear that? He’s only out of his mind because he's lonely, he’s scared! He doesn’t need to be put down; he needs someone to give a damn. Everyone in his life has left him. That does things to a guy. Hell, I’m surprised it took this long!”

Stiles was breathing hard and his fists were clenched in a tight knuckled grip so his blunt fingernails were cutting into his palms. He gritted his teeth to prevent more words that he wanted to shout at them for being idiots. Most of Derek’s family had been horrifically murdered and now his own pack had abandoned him. Derek was holding the weight and blame of all that loss with no one left to help lift it. It was hardly a wonder he had given in to his wolf side.

“It’s kinder this way,” Peter said darkly, but with an oddly empathetic undertone, “Derek’s made his own life hell for so long, he deserves some peace.”

“Listen to him, Stiles,” Scott urged softly, like he was trying to talk Stiles down from a ledge.

Stiles glared a hole in the floor at his feet, not seeing it at all. He wasn’t entirely certain how it was that their joint effort that had done it, but he knew they had pushed this madness on Derek together. Stiles couldn’t stand to be near them anymore. He was furious that they were both just giving up on Derek; he almost expected that out of Peter, but not Scott.

So he forced himself to spin on his heel and yank the door open. As the clear forest air hit him the thought that had been festering in his mind since he first heard it was Derek out there, started take shape into an actual plan. His feet started moving faster until the porch was a blur and he heard shouts from behind him. He raced to the line of ash he'd set up to protect them and, as he heard the boards creak behind him from the porch, he crossed the invisible barrier.

“Stiles what are you doing? He’ll kill you,” Scott asked urgently, hitting the barrier and pulling in a hard breath when it repelled him.

Stiles turned back to him and there was a stony determination on his face as he said, “I’m cleaning up Derek and your mess, as usual.”

Scott’s eyes were full of panic as he beseeched his friend, “Don’t do this, Stiles. Think about it. Think about me, your Dad, your future. He’s going to kill you.”

Peter limped into the doorway as Scott spoke and added, chillingly, “Scott’s right, you go after him now, the only thing you could possibly do is become a ripped up carcass for your father to find.”

He was watching Stiles shrewdly, knowing that is what would keep him there, the idea of leaving his dad to deal with his death, completely alone. Stiles turned his eyes to the ash at his feet, glaring unseeingly at it and cursing Peter for being right. He moved to step back over the line, Scott’s muscles relaxing in relief, when another wretched howl filled the trees around them, farther this time but still crystal clear. It tore through Stiles and he froze with his foot still in midair.

He hated that sound like he’d never hated anything in his life, despised it to the very core of his being. The sheer betrayed agony of it was a plea for comfort in a world of knives. Without a conscious decision to do it, Stiles’s suspended leg changed direction. He was almost at the tree line before he was even aware that he was walking. Scott was shouting and begging Stiles to come back but he didn’t stop, the white noise in his head left by Derek’s howl destroying Scott’s voice. As though caught in a trance, he let his feet take on a life of their own and carry him out of the clearing where the house stood, like a portrait of Derek himself, desolate and betrayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about the time setting, I started writing this during the hiatus but it didn't really have a time frame within canon then either so I'm just going to leave it and not try and integrate it. There is plenty of canon stuff I could say caused Derek to go feral but, for now at least, I'm just going to leave it as ambiguous Derek's life sucks and he can't ever have anything nice except Stiles.
> 
> Also, I was checking something in the previous chapter so I could correct some inconsistency in this chapter, and I saw that there were people who commented on it... WHAT?!  
> So thanks guys, I haven't gotten any notices about comments so it was really a very nice surprise, got me to stop fiddling and post. I might have wrote it, but you're the ones who got it updated, so thanks!  
> I'll see if I can't get the last chapter out faster.


	3. Promise of Night

The woods were full of swirling mist and strange shadows at this time of night and Stiles kept seeing shapes at the edge of his vision that vanished when he glanced their way. The moon hung eerily among the trees, cut apart by branches and casting a milky diffused light across the scene. Some time into his wandering, after Scott’s voice had long faded away behind him, Stiles began to worry that Derek had already found someone to tear apart when he heard no further howls and saw no sign of him.

Every instinct in Stiles screamed for him to keep silent and run back to the safety of the burnt shell of a house where his best friend was probably pacing a hole in the charred flooring. But despite that, he knew that if he wanted to find Derek he would need to draw more attention to himself.

“Derek,” he called through the trees, trying and failing to keep a tentative note out of his voice. The trees echoed the sound hollowly back like they were taunting him, the branches high above making leering faces at him. He turned his head to either side but the world was eerily silent and still around him. He called Derek’s name again as he started off in a random direction, trying to use his more limited human senses to detect the wolf.

There was a paranoia dogging him that Derek was already following him but the ghost of eyes on the back of his head did nothing to deter him. Stiles tried to keep his mind off the creepy feeling that prickled up his neck every time he made noise but it was an itch at the back of his head he couldn’t ignore.

The moon crossed the sky slowly as he yelled into thin air, becoming more and more wound up with each minute that his quarry didn’t appear. He was starting to hope that maybe Derek had found a den for the night or something when he was stopped dead in mid-step by a ragged howl that went up into the night air like the scream of a dying man. The sound was unbearably lonely in the lifeless trees and it cracked at Stiles’s heart.

“Derek,” he called back loudly, heading as quickly as he could in the direction he thought the howl had come from while avoiding the hidden obstacles trying to trip him up in the dark.

He slowed down after a few minutes and listened over the sound of his own heavy breathing but there was no further sound of the wolf. He wasn’t sure how far away Derek had been or which direction he might have gone. The lack of information was both infuriating and disturbing.

Stiles huffed out an agitated breath and muttered impatiently, “Come on, Derek, where are  you?”

He jumped as a howl went up behind him, far closer than he would have liked. Stiles spun on the spot, searching among the trees for a glimpse of red among the shadows of gray blue. He felt eyes on him, but Derek was nowhere to be seen among the lifeless shadows.

“Derek,” Stiles asked, scanning the forest carefully, “I thought we talked about this sneaking up on people thing.”

He reached into his jeans pocket, looking for the mountain ash. He knew there wasn’t much left but he could at least make a little barrier to keep Derek from clawing his throat out. But his fingers hit the bottom of his pocket without touching the smooth glass container. He rooted around in the empty space, breath freezing in his chest. He tried the other pocket, but the bottle wasn’t there either. The pockets of his sweatshirt were empty too when his desperate search moved up to them.

His eyes slowly lifted to look out into the forest, which was suddenly much more menacing. He must have dropped the bottle somewhere back at the Hale house, he couldn’t remember exactly where, but he was totally without protection now. He couldn’t go back, he wasn’t even sure exactly which direction to go now and Derek was far too close for that anyway.

This had seemed like a good idea when he had been standing inside the protection of the ash line, but now he was out here, far from help, talking down a feral werewolf with nothing but his good intentions, it seemed truly foolhardy. Bile crawled bitterly up his throat at the idea that Peter had been right and Stiles worked to control his breathing, the last thing he needed right now was to panic. Stiles mentally kicked himself for going off alone, defenseless, without even a weapon, to deal with a deranged alpha. Then again, he reminded himself, a weapon wouldn’t do him much good anyway if Derek ripped it out of his hand first.

His tongue flicked out and wet his lips nervously as he strained his senses to try and find Derek among the dark tree trunks and deceptive shadows. He turned as his peripheral vision caught a flash of movement through the trees and he backed up a slow step. He heard something crack behind him and jumped with a yell of surprise, spinning to face it. There was nothing but the deep shadows of a gnarled tree trunk. It was so much harder not being able to see Derek and Stiles’s nerves couldn’t take much more of this.

He was turning his head to try and look in every direction at once and finally spotted the red of Derek’s eyes between two trees at an abnormal height. All Stiles nerves went on red alert. Those were the cold eyes of a predator and they were looking at him like he might possibly be dinner.

Derek took a slow step forward and Stiles could see the outline of powerful muscles moving as the moon peeked out from behind a cloud, illuminating the deep black fur and elongated snout of what had become of Derek Hale. Derek was the picture of a tormented, crippled animal, feral and dangerous; like something out of a nightmare.

Stiles automatically inched his foot backwards and raised his hands in a nonthreatening gesture as he moved back.  Derek continued moving toward him, slow and purposeful, claws gouging the earth in jagged stripes with each step. Stiles whole being was screaming at him to get out of there as fast as he could but Stiles knew that if he ran he would get maybe ten seconds at the most before Derek had pounced on him and torn him apart.

Stiles swallowed his fear to the best of his ability and tried to sound strong as he said, “It’s me, Stiles, remember? I held you up in a pool for two hours? Let you hide from the law in my bedroom?”

At Stiles’s words, Derek cocked his head to one side and stopped moving for a second, eyes narrowing, wary and distrustful but listening. Derek was probably the most animal he had ever been, but he was still Derek, this was just what he became when he had nothing else to turn to, Stiles got that. It hurt to watch and Stiles felt that part of his chest Derek’s howl had hollowed scream at him to do something.

Stiles figured he didn’t have very long before the wolf decided he would make a better entrée than spectacle. “Derek, come on, this isn’t you. Just change back and we can-” He was cut off by a sharp, angry growl that almost sent him to his knees. Stiles hadn’t broken eye contact, even though he knew looking away was the first rule in how not to get yourself killed by an angry werewolf, and Derek seemed to be taking it the wrong way.

Derek growled at him again and bared his fangs in a threatening leer. Stiles breath caught in his throat and he barely held onto his panic because, for all the terrifying stuff Stiles had seen and been through, that made the top of the list.

Derek shifted his weight downward into a crouch, ready to spring. For all the paralyzing terror Stiles had felt that night, this sight did not fill him with fear like it should have. Instead, he found that he was furious. Everything Peter had said and the fact that he was probably right was filtering through his head again and working him into a serious rage.

“No, I did not come all the way out here to be eaten. I’m trying to keep you alive, could you concentrate for one second,” Stiles yelled, frustrated beyond rationality.

Derek stopped and there was a tilt to his head as he watched Stiles, whose chest was heaving and whose glare could melt metal. Stiles took a breath to calm himself down a little, but it didn’t do much good. His jaw was clenched tight and his hands dropped into his sweatshirt’s pockets in fists so he wouldn’t do something really stupid, like try to punch the feral werewolf. Derek wasn’t looking at him like he was prey anymore but an anomaly, a rabbit that suddenly turned ferocious and grew fangs. Any other time, Stiles would have laughed at that image, but he was beyond that now, furious and righteous and sick of this whole night.

“I’m the only one who believes in you right now, do you get that,” Stiles asked vehemently, like he was talking to a total moron, “Everyone else gave up, they think you’re past saving, but the human, the guy with no supernatural abilities, came to drag your butt back because I know that you’re the biggest idiot in the world, but you’re not this. I know you, okay? You messed up but you don’t deserve to die like this.”

Derek was watching Stiles uncertainly. He wasn’t sure how much Derek could understand right now but he could have sworn the narrowness in Derek’s eyes lessened for a second and there was a sudden flash of pain to the angry red glare at Stiles’s words, a human look.

“I talked to Peter and Scott; I know what they think. But I know you tried to build a pack and it’s killing you that you couldn't make it work. And maybe I can’t really understand what that’s like for you but I know that being alone is the worst feeling, ever,” Stiles stopped to catch his breath, swallowing hard and licking at his dry lips.

“You’re not alone though, Derek,” Stiles said sincerely, staring hard into the eyes he knew so well, despite the madness of that red glow, full of the weight of guilt from too many lives lost, “I came back, I’m standing right here. Even like this, _that’s got to mean something to you_.” The last words came out powerful and pleading, pulling together all of Stiles’s desperation and hope and throwing out in a few syllables.

Derek watched him for a moment, not blinking, not moving, and Stiles waited. He could feel the tipping point in the air, like a thread of fate pulled taught. He didn't dare breath for fear it would shatter everything.

Derek finally tipped his head back and loosed a long, agonized howl into the night. This close to the source, the sound shook the air around Stiles until he thought the world would shatter apart with the misery of it. He threw his hands over his ears but it didn’t do any good. It was inside him, like the bass at a concert, making his heart jump to it and rattling his bones. It ate through his heart and filled his eyes tears at the emptiness that made him want to scream.

Then it ended and he found himself bent over and breathing erratically, like he’d received a blow to the abdomen. The need to scream back was overwhelming, so he didn’t fight it. He let the sound rip through him, like a primitive battle cry, drawing it from the depths of his being and letting it fill the air with as much strength as he could put behind it.

When he ran out of breath, he looked back at Derek and he didn’t feel afraid anymore. Stiles, his newfound boldness urging him on, stepped toward him slowly, with his hand outstretched and his eyes commanding as they held Derek’s red gaze. The werewolf shifted his weight back defensively, glancing at proffered the hand then back at Stiles’s eyes. There was a vulnerable disbelief and a hesitation in Derek’s eyes now.

“Come on, what have you got to lose,” Stiles asked with an ironic laugh stuck at the back of his throat.

Derek looked from Stiles’s eyes to his proffered hand again and stared for a second more before shifting forward slowly. He raised one clawed paw little by little toward Stiles’s hand. The fur crawled away, like grass in a field flattened by wind, and human skin appeared, giving way to a hand and an arm. Derek straightened as the change swept through his body and his wolf features turned smoothly into human ones. The claws retreated last and by the time his hand finally touched Stiles’s palm, Derek was entirely human again.

Derek breathed out a soft, amazed breath and looked back at Stiles, the red bleeding back in to reveal his light green, human eyes, as Stiles closed his fingers around Derek’s. He tugged Derek to his feet from his half crouch and the werewolf stood slowly as though he didn’t know how to properly use his limbs anymore, eyes never leaving Stiles’s.

“Stiles,” Derek asked in a croak of a voice, like he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on.

He tried to take a step toward him, but his legs refused to work properly and he swayed ominously. Stiles took the final step forward and put an arm around Derek’s naked chest to steady him saying, “Whoa there big guy. Take it easy.”

Derek leaned against him for a second then wrapped his arms around Stiles back and pulled him hard to his chest, burying his face in the Stiles’s neck. His whole body started shaking, as though a nine point five earthquake was happening inside his chest.

After a few seconds of shock, Stiles recovered himself and wrapped his arms around Derek, holding him in a tight hug of the kind he was willing to bet Derek had not experienced in years. Stiles didn’t care that they were in the middle of the woods and Derek was completely naked, the guy had just gone through hell after all, he deserved a little comfort. He smelled wild; hard worked muscle and something he could only describe as the wolf, mixed with the brisk tang of fresh air that clung to Derek’s body. It suited him.

Derek took a long while to calm down, so long that the forest around them turned every shade of grey and color started to bleed into the world as the sun rose. Stiles let him, holding onto him quietly and lending him the comfort of his presence. Derek had stopped shaking gradually and his breathing slowly returned to a normal, a smooth rhythm that perfectly complemented Stiles’ own, one breathing in as the other breathed out. It was soothing and, after the night he’d just had, Stiles could feel his eyelids drooping and the world going out of focus like a badly tuned radio.

“We should get going,” Stiles finally said. He didn't try to disengage from the embrace though, giving Derek full control of that. With the way Derek was still holding him, Stiles doubted he could have broken away if he’d tried.

“Stay,” Derek muttered. His voice was gravelly, like his growl, as though the animal part of him had not yet faded completely, but it was a miserable plea all the same.

“I’m here as long as you need,” Stiles answered, thumb running soothingly down a notch in Derek’s spine, right over his tattoo.

“Forever,” Derek added. It was such a quiet request, breathed out so softly that if Derek’s mouth had not been so close to his ear, Stiles wouldn't have heard it at all.

“I might have to check my social calendar for that one,” Stiles joked gently. Derek’s arms tightened a little and Stiles sighed before saying, soberly, “If that’s what it takes, I’m here.”

He felt Derek nod once against the junction between his neck and shoulder. Then suddenly Derek pulled back and tugged Stiles forward in a single motion. Stiles brain ground to a halt and his body tensed in surprise as he felt lips against his own. The sensation sent electricity coursing through every nerve ending from the point of contact outward.

Before Stiles had fully processed what was happening, let alone reacted, Derek broke away and returned his head to its previous resting place on Stiles’s neck, breathing in deeply. Stiles stood, stunned, for a few seconds longer, still processing, wondering if he’d imagined that. He could still taste Derek though and feel the ghost press of lips on his own. His mouth quirked up in the corner as it hit him and Stiles relaxed further against Derek, closing his eyes contentedly.

He could feel Derek’s heart beating against him, in him, and Stiles found he was perfectly happy with the idea of this, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a year, it's done. What a weird feeling.
> 
> Join me on Tumblr [here](http://alexdoesthings.tumblr.com/)


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